


The Tale of You

by RobinWritesChirps



Category: Twisted: The Untold Story of a Royal Vizier - Holmes/McMahon/Lang & Lang & Gale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Bookstores, Cats, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Love Letters, Muslim Character, Sultanate of Agrabah (Disney)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinWritesChirps/pseuds/RobinWritesChirps
Summary: Ja’far had never much cared for fiction, yet in every turn of a phrase he now remembered the warmth of Sherrezade’s eyes, the soft round of her face, and he thought that surely a bit of her goodness had imbued the pages.Bookshop AU, canon setting, different jobs and life stories.
Relationships: Ja'far/Sherrezade (Twisted: The Untold Story of a Royal Vizier)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	The Tale of You

**Author's Note:**

> This is something cute and new I didn’t think of doing before :) Hopefully you like it!

The weight of Ja'far's first wages clinked in the pockets of his trousers as he made his sunny way through the streets of Agrabah. The air was warm with late summer and with the satisfaction of a work well done and well rewarded. The coins were few and more copper than gold, but Ja'far had made his sums and knew how to spend them well. Zakat was his duty and his pleasure, he supposed, as were gifts and offerings, for he would have scorned himself for splurging his riches on his own desires. He had a smile on his face and a tune at his lips all the way to the Cave of Wonders. He had heard much good about it.

The shop was trapped between the inner wealthier part of the city, the part where the guards greeted you with a bow and your word was as good as the name your renowned ancestors bore, and the downcast slums that made the much bigger part of Agrabah, where the guards were alert and ruthless and where the people could only cling to whichever bit of luck came their way, for it was an odd rarity. This world and that, a door opened on either side to whoever would enter the narrow sunlit boutique, as all were welcomed inside by signs of greetings and good luck on the whitewashed walls of sandstone. Some string instrument was playing inside, the air filled with its delightful melody and with the smell of incense.

"Peace be upon you and welcome, my dear, to the Cave of Wonders," a warm feminine voice told him from across the shop.

Ja’far paused at the threshold atop a few steps, caught in a bout of dreaming he had not foreseen. This was his first visit here and he had not been told the shopkeeper was a woman, only that all treasures of literature and knowledge were to be found within these walls. She was sitting leisurely upon a pile of cushions in a corner, playing on a small lute a tune that instilled him with a sense of quiet he had not known before.

"My name is Sherrezade," she said, "And it is my pleasure to guide you towards the story of your heart."

Ja’far gulped thickly, suddenly bothered by how warm he was feeling, very red in the face. The sun was shining from the outside – and from the inside. His hands clasped together in front of him as he scrambled his mind, usually rapid and which served him well, for a word of reply. Sherrezade was very beautiful, all clad in soft silken oranges and pinks. A veil around her face hid some of her dark hair which fell down in a splendid cascade of loose curls at the top, her eyes were large and brown and piercing through him when she looked up to give him a mysterious smile. At her feet, a striped cat was purring.

"And what does your heart desire, sir?"

His mouth opened and closed twice or thrice before he knew what to say, and he still did not know.

"Books," he muttered. "Stories."

He cleared his throat and fixed his posture. The shop was small, though not cramped, a breezy maze of hidden nooks and crannies. Wooden shelves incased in every wall were drooping with the weight of many books, trinkets and all sorts of little treasures. The evening sun bathed the place with bright warmth from window slits in every wall and in the ceiling and there was no one in sight but Sherrezade. He wondered if he would have noticed otherwise.

"Children’s stories," he specified. "I teach street children, though only for a fortnight and they’ve already been begging for more books in the classroom."

"Most stories are children's stories," she said with good cheer, "If you think they're capable enough."

Still, she stood to her feet, which were bare and beautifully shaped, and began to browse her collection. Floating from one shelf to the next without any pattern he could understand, she picked up books here and there, soon making a small pile on the stool she had been sitting on. Every motion was filled with grace. Ja’far took out his purse to count his coins again. His first fortnight paid by the magistrate wasn’t much, though he was willing to chime in with his own reserves should it come to that.

"They’re very capable," he said and smiled with fondness for the children he barely knew so far but loved already. "I’ll explain them the longer words if they need the help, but they’re witty and quick to soak in knowledge."

"Yes," she said and caught his smile with one of her own. "All children are eager to learn. They only have to be guided down the path towards it."

She was holding onto the heap of volumes she had gathered, some very thin, some thick with many pages.

"That’s just what I’m trying to do. I don’t know much about stories, but I’m well learned in history, mathematics and sciences. I’m teaching them their letters, we’ve been reading the lessons of the Quran as well as many other great wise men, they’ve learned to read a map and to speak a word or two in the language of the…"

He realized he was being boastful and stopped with a sheepish smile. He scratched his head. It was all too easy to become engrossed in his own works but much harder to find the right humility. Sherrezade might think him pretentious, self-absorbed. In this instant, no opinion in the world held any weight but hers.

"All that in a fortnight?" She asked with some teasing. "By Allah, where is your time turner, good sorcerer?"

"No!" He cried out and, noting how loud he had spoken, coughed awkwardly. "No, madam, there’s no magic. Only a great deal of patience and a handful of excellent young minds."

The books were passed from her hands to his and he pressed them to his chest. Suddenly, the thought of sharing them with his pupils was insufferable, though he knew reluctantly that he had to.

"Hopefully these young minds will be entertained," she said. "I’ve never had a client be dissatisfied with the books of my choosing."

She named a price, which was lower than Ja’far had expected and he rounded it up as he dropped the coins in her palm. He paid his goodbyes too and he had not yet crossed the threshold that music was playing again and the sound of her humming was his farewell in reply.

He smiled up at the sky. A burgundy sunset was falling over the city and the vast arid plains of the desert beyond. The river Jordan was undulating in a million hues in the distance. Ja’far walked through the crowded streets of Agrabah bustling with night life, hearing shouts of joy here and there that were but a hazy mirror of the happiness that was settling in himself. He was all smiles and pleasantries and greeted many men and women along the way as if they had been his close friends all his life, though he had never met them before. The stars were aligning all right in the heavens above and he was at peace, frantic with it. He pushed open the creaking heavy door of his apartments above the classroom that was his work and his pride and fell back against it with a smitten sigh as it closed.

"I will see her again," he promised to a warm and heavy night air that held all of his dreams already. "I will get acquainted and she will become a dear friend."

A cat meowed her approval at the window sill and Ja'far chuckled softly to himself. He checked his small pantry for anything that might please the stray visitor and the cat purred her contentment when he fed her a small smoked fish, stroking her skinny back with every bite she took.

"Have you met Sherrezade before?" He asked the calico. "Is she your good friend, too?"

The cat only meowed her protest when the meal ran out. She said little of Ja’far’s plans for romantic endeavors. Maybe cats did not know much about a flustering heart that beat with love. Ja’far himself had not known before tonight. Having learned, he felt like he knew everything he needed. If only he had the courage to put his good feelings into actions.

The children adored the stories he brought them the next day. Their eyes were filled with awe and their small fingers were as cautious as a hunting cat as they pulled open the tomes to swell up their minds with the stories they held. Those who read well were appointed the readers for the ones who could not and the entire class lingered for much longer than the allotted hours. Ja’far had never much cared for fiction, yet in every turn of a phrase he now remembered the warmth of Sherrezade’s eyes, the soft round of her face, and he thought that surely a bit of her goodness had imbued the pages. Every day, the class was more eager to be done with the lessons for they knew they would be rewarded with the pleasure of reading afterwards. If he let himself not take offense, Ja’far was glad for it. There was no greater joy to him than to know that his work was changing lives for the better and more than ever, he reaped every day the rewards on this one deed.

He went back to the Cave of Wonders the next week, having fought within himself a battle of craving to see Sherrezade again, who intrigued and entranced him, and yet not wanting to impose his affection on her should she not be inclined towards it.

"Peace be upon you," he said, "And upon this shop and these books. I’ve come to find more."

She was sitting and playing cards with two other women who hid their snicker behind their hand as Ja’far bowed and beamed. Sherrezade did not hide her smile. She bore it radiant on her face.

"Then by all means, good sir, find as many as you will."

He sauntered the length of the shop to have a look around. Pausing idly behind a case, he noted that he had a plain view of the game of cards that had begun again through a sliver between two books, but thought better than to spy. The sound of soft womanly voices was animating the room with an unexpected vigor, each of them protesting the turn of the game with every new card, but all in good amity and spirit. He smiled to himself. Two cats were sleeping side by side on an empty shelf.

Scientific books and essays, ancient law treaties, tax reforms, studies on the natural and the spiritual world, all sorts of subjects that had been his passion were now fading into the background as he found himself wishing for stories instead. He skipped the tangible topics for the realm of creativity and fiction and his thumb traced dozens, hundreds of titles he had never so much as heard of before. A whole new education lay before his eyes, if only he found the teacher to guide his way.

"Oh, you’re cheating!" One of the woman chided. "I tell you, I never see you change your hand but I know when you have. It must be magic."

He caught a glimpse of Sherrezade wriggling her fingers in front of her eyes with a mischievous smile.

"Call me what you will but you’ve still lost this turn, sister. Here, I’ll pass you the cards and let you shuffle the next so you can rest assured I won’t put a spell on it."

Tales of heroes and unknowns, magical tales, stories of the everyday and of the unnatural, the choice was so great Ja’far could barely narrow down on it. He hardly knew what he was hoping for, what sign the right book would give him that he would pick it up. His fingers were a better guide than his eyes and his mind, for they butted against a roll of paper he had not noticed. Frowning, he pulled it out, tucked between two large volumes and he nearly gasped at the words he read.

_To a brilliant handsome young teacher_

The roll was bound loosely in a ribbon of red linen and he could make out that the sheet was covered in handwriting from the shape of letters ghosting through the paper. Although he had no right to it and he felt like an intruder for even supposing, he could not help but think the letter was his. He dared not look at Sherrezade again. Suddenly taken by a burst of nerve, he shoved the roll into his pocket and took out his purse instead, grabbing the two books that had entrapped the missive.

"I’ll take these," he said a little too loud, like his words would properly conceal the theft if he spoke them boldly enough. "That will be all."

Sherrezade stood to greet him and name the price of his purchase. He nearly felt the warmth of her fingers, so narrowly they passed his to check the titles he was buying, but the contact was faint and imperceptible. He might have dreamed it. Her lips turned in the brightest, sincerest smile he could have mustered in his own rosy imagination and she leaned against a bookcase nearby to look at him.

"Did you find _everything_ you were looking for?"

Her hair was looser today, likely the result of a casual afternoon between friends. Everything about Sherrezade was soft and smooth and Ja’far wondered if she was ever strung or jittery like he always was, if she ever felt the same palpitations of anxiety that so often bled into excitement in his own heart. He should very much like to see it if she did, for he wanted to learn every facet of her there was to witness.

"I think I did," he said, nodding. Shuffling on his feet, he felt the edge of the parchment against his thigh and his hands were aching with the hope to open it and learn its words by heart as soon as he would be on his own. "Thank you very much, dear madam."

"No, I thank _you_ ," she replied and he wondered if he imagined the wink she gave him then. "And I hope to see you again soon."

"You will," he promised at once. "I… will always need books. For my students. That is the way of learning."

There was something teasing in the smirk at her lips − her beautiful pink lips − and Ja’far forced his eyes up to hers again.

"So it is," she said. "Soon, then."

"Very soon."

He thought he should wait to be home to read the letter, but before he could stop himself, his fingers were prying open the roll of paper the moment he left the store and he had read her words a dozen times by the time he reached his door − and the walk was very short.

_To the kind eyes that changed my course of heart_

The page was crammed from top to bottom with her writing, which was small and hurried, like she had jotted down every idea that passed her mind and here and there he saw the evidence of her having passed over her text again and added some more thoughts in between already tight lines. Some was rhymes, some was prose, all was about him. She described in flowery language her good impression of his character and made many ponderations as to his life situation − most of them accurate, which made him rethink her friend’s accusation of magic. But if Sherrezade had a skill, it wasn’t so much magical as the power to tell a story, to linger on a feeling, and Ja’far felt enamored with every word before his eyes. The letter told him a tale of sincerity and keen interest. He who had never caught any woman’s eyes before was made as special as any hero, as the Sultan himself.

He fell back on his bed once he was home, holding up the paper in front of him to read it again and again, to imprint the words in his memory that he may recite them to himself in moments of doubt. Nothing about her writing was overly romantic, he quickly noted and calmed himself down, merely marked with a deep interest in knowing him better, in trying to know him already. He would do with being a good friend. He would also do with being much, much more if she would allow it.

"But how to pay her back…" He wondered.

The empty room had no reply. All by himself, Ja’far came to the decision that he had to compose his own reply. His style was less elaborate than hers, he was sure, and he lacked the habit of writing anything more than scientific concepts and the basics of great lessons of life. He grabbed a piece of chalk and a hundred times tried to word his reply on the empty wall of his single bedroom of a house. A hundred times, the words were not enough and he rubbed most of it clean. Little by little, though, his prose was purified by all the erasures and by the time he had reworked every sentence, changed every word for another at least a dozen times, he was content enough with his own work to be willing to put it to paper.

The flame in his heart was burning much brighter than the candlelight under which he wrote out the words of passion and thanks so long refined. His hand was shaking and he was scared to blot ink at every scratch of his quill, but he would have scorned himself if he did and his will was stronger than his exhaustion. The words glistened in the dim light of his room and he hated them now that they were laid out so plain, but he refused to let his nerve win over the best of him. Letting them dry at the heat of the candle, he never reread them and simply rolled the paper as neatly as he could to hide them from his view. They weren’t for himself, he told his fretting mind. They were solely for Sherrezade to enjoy.

_To an enchantress of words and stories_

At the risk of looking very eager indeed, Ja’far returned to the shop the next evening. Surprise and delight lit up Sherrezade’s face when she spotted him at the entrance but, as she was already at the service of other customers, she made no attempt to talk to him just then. Ja’far thought with some shame that this was better. He wasn’t as good with words as he hoped and especially not when he had to speak them out loud. Written confessions were much easier, though already insurmountable. He wondered how it was that his steps had carried him thus far, for his legs were shaking under him now and he felt sweaty and anxious. What had he written again? He could not remember a line of it. He was starting to regret the idea altogether.

_To the stranger I wish I knew_

The sight of the new roll of paper resting casually in front of some tomes of a series of legends gave him pause and soothed his anxious heart. The same handwriting, another ribbon keeping the paper rolled up, except this one was burgundy. Ja’far looked at the letter in his hand, the one he had spent all night writing, and then at the one Sherrezade had left there again. How had she known he would be back? And without having even knowledge of him writing a reply…

"Are you finding anything that catches your eye?"

Her voice behind him startled him and in one swift motion, Ja’far switched around her letter for his, shoving his new prize in his pocket secretively. His heart was beating furiously fast as he turned around and he was certain he was blushing crimson.

"Y-Yes," he mumbled, "Yes, I believe I’ll take these."

She smiled at him with softness and her fingers wriggled against her sides. He was longing to hold them in his but he couldn’t, perhaps not yet. A cat rubbed against his calf. Sherrezade observed the small pile of books Ja’far had grabbed in a hurry and asked him for the price. Ja’far emptied his purse into her palm and left the shop in a hurry.

The letters became a game of bouncing ball between them, a constant back and forth with only the delay of written words. They never, ever mentioned them, but there was always something clever in her eyes that told him nobody else could have written such words under the disguise of her name. There was always something gentle that told him they were in earnest. Every few days, they poured their hearts out to one another on paper never to speak of it when they chatted out loud. They started to talk more and Ja’far’s tongue loosened a little the more he got used to being around her. It wasn’t an easy task.

"I wonder, Ja’far, how it is that a teacher in the lower part of the city can splurge on books so often for the street children he instructs."

Ja’far would have felt caught in a trap if Sherrezade wasn’t so keen on teasing him every time they spent a moment together. She had a passion for pushing him out of his tight ways and he was all the more infatuated for it.

"I’m not as unfortunate as that," he explained. "My parents died when I was a young man and left me their house. With the small sum I made selling it, I bought a room much more suited to a single man and I’ve set the rest aside for hard times."

Sherrezade was putting away books that customers had left lying around. Ja’far was holding the pile of them for her and slowly making his way from one end of the shop to the other to help her.

"Or for such times as the children needing new books," she said.

Ja’far laughed.

"Or for such times as that, yes."

In truth, not all books were for the children anymore. He had asked a friend to build him a new bookcase in his house to make some room for the constant purchases, a few books several times a week quickly piling up. He had painted it as white as Sherrezade’s shop and a small seed of her passion had turned into a tree, a forest of it inside the walls of his own home. At night, he gazed at his collection and felt the comfort of Sherrezade’s good smiles lull him to sleep.

She was now making him recommendations in every letter and in every reply, he gave his appreciation of the new stories she had initiated him to. There was so much more to stories than the wanderings of a creative mind, Ja’far had found out. There were all the emotions of the human heart and, as of late, he was becoming very attuned to a specific shade of feelings inside himself. For many years, he had never understood the yearnings of his classmates and neighbors, all his brothers and sisters who longed for each other in secret or in plain sight. Not until Sherrezade had any of it made sense, but it had clicked in him now and he understood it perfectly. In every glance, every smile, he found more to love about her, and yet much more with every letter she wrote him. He was quickly craving to be having the same conversations out loud, to be sharing her life and her heart. Yet every time he visited, he found another letter which he read on his own once he was home and he never dared a word otherwise. He supposed he knew what he had to do to change this.

A cat meowed at his window, whom he recognized as one of the strays Sherrezade fed at the Cave of Wonders. She had a dear heart for the abandoned and the needy and perhaps for this reason as much as any, he had fallen for her.

"Have you come to encourage me?" He asked the cat. "Or to mock me?"

The cat meowed louder and Ja’far let her in. She pranced around, smug from having been invited inside for once and curled up at his feet after he had fed her to purr loudly.

"If only I could teach you to speak," he said with some regret, "Then you would ask her yourself and she could never say no to you."

But Ja’far knew then that words on paper had sufficed them thus far to create a friendship, to create − at least on his part − feelings that could no longer be kept quiet. He knew they would have to be let out eventually, sooner rather than later. He was ready to share them. All he could hope was that Sherrezade was just as willing to receive them. He put his quill to paper and wrote.

_Should you be interested, my dear Sherrezade, I hereby invite you to share with me a pot of fresh tea at the parlor behind the mosque across the market square this afternoon. There are some confessions I have to make that cannot be first told on paper. I hope you will understand the importance of expressing the intricacies of human emotions out loud. If your heart so desires, I will be waiting for you at five on the terrace by the lemon tree._

_Yours ever devoted, yours always,_

_Ja’far_

The cat climbed onto his desk as he finished writing. Never before had he taken such a short time to write anything, never had he not agonized over every phrase, every word. Perhaps for this certainty of heart, he knew he could not change a thing about this letter. What he did not know was when he would find in himself the courage to hand it to her. The cat meowed softly, then hopped off the table to make her way to the window again. Ja’far followed her there for farewells. He scratched her neck, the space between her ears.

"Are you going to Sherrezade tonight, my lady?" He whispered to her and to the night sky. "Will you greet her for me? Will she greet you right back like this?"

He kissed the cat’s head, who gave him a squeaking sound in reply and appreciation. She then jumped away from one roof to the next till she was out of sight entirely. Ja’far went to bed.

He waited one day and longed for her morning, noon and evening at school and at home. The children were amazing him every passing day with their cleverness and their quickness to learn any new concept he introduced to them. Teaching them was no chore, but thoughts of Sherrezade were his reward and solace anyways. He waited another day, trying to gather in himself every ounce of courage he was certain he possessed. Another day still passed before he passed the threshold of her shop in the early morning sun as dawn awakened the dusty streets of Agrabah the next day. The air was fresh with autumn.

"… and Ali Baba stood before the door and said, ’Open, sesame!’ and the door instantly flew wide open…"

A small crowd of children was packed around Sherrezade, who sat there on her stool to tell them stories. She was pouring herself whole into every rendition and her whole body danced with her words. Ja’far smiled and tried to make himself discreet, but Sherrezade spotted him at the entrance and her performance was renewed in vitality as she glanced at him every few sentences. Ja’far sat among the children − some of whom were his pupils, some he had never seen. A cat he knew well came to rest between his crossed legs and he petted him softly, waiting for the end of the stories.

At the same time, he hoped for them never, ever to end. Sherrezade’s voice gave the stories a breath of life he didn’t think any writer could have foreseen, though he wondered if she had perhaps composed them herself, as no book was in evidence around her and she spoke as fluently as if she had been retelling an anecdote of her own life. Ja’far was bewitched by the beauty of her creative mind, by the spark in her eyes and how kindly she looked at every child, making sure all of them were following along. A vision suddenly overwhelmed him of a possible future of Sherrezade treating their own children so, how loving and nurturing she would be surrounded by a handful of bright young children that would be hers and his, a babe at her bosom, a story at her lips. He was so taken with the sight created by his own mind it took him some time to realize she had finished narrating and the audience was quickly becoming much more scarce than it had been.

"Ja’far," she smiled as she sat more proper, putting some order back into her shop. "I didn’t know you for an avid listener of my tales. The crowd is normally a tad younger, as you saw."

He scooted a little closer to her, which bothered the cat who jumped off his lap. Sherrezade glanced at him trot away with amusement.

"Sherrezade," he said in a whisper, "I would listen to your stories a thousand and one nights if I could."

She seemed touched by these words and Ja’far knew his occasion had come. He pushed the invitation towards her on the ground and Sherrezade stared at the roll of paper like she had never seen such a thing, like it was someone entirely different who had plucked all the letters he had littered the shop with for weeks. They had never talked of the letters or acknowledged them between each other, but all letters had been signed. Ja’far had not been concealing himself, nor had she. She pursed her lips, which turned into a smile as she looked up at him.

"Did you lose something, dear sir?"

Ja’far’s heart was beating a drumming chant against his temples and his ears and every part of him that could feel it.

"No," he said with all the confidence he could find in him − which was more than he had anticipated. "No, I meant to give this one in the right hands and no doubt."

Taken with boldness, he slid the roll of paper into her palm. A pulse of electricity struck him when their fingers touched and he wondered if she had felt it as well. He could not decipher the way she was looking at him and, usually such a clever tongue and a force of wits, Sherrezade was silent. He stood up.

"I hope you will give it all your attention. A very nice rest of the day to you."

He left, for he did not know if he would find any more courage to speak when Sherrezade did not. The lessons seemed today to last for eternity and several children made remarks on him being distracted. A handful took advantage of it to be more rambunctious than they would usually dare, but Ja’far was in no mind to scold them. He stared outside at the sun rising up in the sky, every hour closer to the point where his fate would be decided for him. Sherrezade had his heart in her hands to do what she pleased with. Finally realizing he was in no state to be teaching, he dismissed the children early to go back to their play in the busy streets of Agrabah. They left in a cacophony of cheers.

At home, he bathed with scented soap and with particular care. He put some order into his hair and his beard, though the hair was hidden under his turban and the beard was as strong-willed as ever. A stray cat meowed at the window sill and he petted him, kissed the top of his head before giving him scraps of leftover meat and a plate of water with a bit of milk in it.

"Wish me good luck," he whispered.

The cat meowed his encouragement. Ja’far sighed. His heart clenched with worry and he set himself out to meet his fate. The tea vendor at the parlor who knew him well noted how overwrought he looked and Ja’far tried to laugh at himself, but the conversation stopped soon enough when he realized his stomach twisted too tight to keep it afloat. He sat and ordered some jasmine tea. He waited.

His heart was soaring and sighing in sorrow by the time the veil at the entrance arch was pushed open by elegant thin hands and he had never felt such relief. Sherrezade was a vision of glory, finally a reward after so much longing. She beamed at him like a ray of sunshine and he thought he would never be unhappy again so long as he held this memory in his heart. She sat across from him and crossed her legs nimbly, something feline and independent about every motion. He adored her all the more for it.

"Sherrezade…"

She served herself a glass of tea and stirred honey into it, gazing into his eyes. He realized she was waiting for him to speak and cleared his throat self-consciously.

"I was, erm, I was hoping you would come. I wasn’t sure…"

"I was curious," she confessed. "I was interested." She was looking at him so intensely he found miracles in the dark of her eyes. "I _am_ interested."

She sipped some tea.

"I cannot express how relieved I am that you are here, dear Sherrezade," he sighed adoringly. "So the story _does_ have a happy ending."

She cocked an eyebrow and her fingers touched his across the table, slowly finding each other till their hands were clasped together tight.

"An ending? Ja'far, my darling, it's only just started."

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment! Also if you have other ideas for AUs for these two, send them on my tumblr musicalsandfluff or in the comments. I’d love to write more of them that’s G rated.


End file.
